Cannon (Carolina Reapers 5)

“So I don’t get to respond?”

“Of course you do,” I assured her. “But it’s an actions-speak-louder-than-words kind of thing. I’m just worried that if you interrupt me, I’ll never get this out, and we’re kind of down to the wire on this will-we won’t-we thing.”

“Right.” She sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap as she crossed her legs. The silk split with the motion, revealing a smooth, creamy thigh that reminded me it had been days since I’d made love to her.

If this didn’t go well, it would be an eternity.

“Okay. You talk. I’ll listen, and then I won’t say a single word until you’re gone, I promise on my Mama’s life.” She swallowed, her eyes laced with fear, but she nodded anyway. My brave girl.

I took a deep breath, steadied my nerves the best I could, then yanked my tie loose.

Her eyes flared wide as she watched me pull the knot apart, and unbutton the top few buttons on my shirt, but she was true to her word and didn’t speak. I was careful to leave the edges of the shirt closed, but if all else failed, I had a visual aid.

“I love you, Persephone,” I began.

She pressed her lips in a firm line as her eyes searched mine.

“I’m never going to be the man you deserve. I’m not the man who sits quietly, sipping mimosas on a Sunday morning at the country club, listening to all the douchebags prattle on about their 401K’s. I’m not the man who spills his guts when something is bothering him. I’m not the man your dad wants or your friends want, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be allowed into a PTA meeting. I’ll never be the man in a bowtie or the man in the green vest. And to be honest, that kind of guy isn’t the one you fell in love with.”

She sucked in her breath but stayed silent.

“If you say you love me, and you really do, then you have to accept who I am, not who you think I can be. I will always struggle with my temper. Chances are I’ll get your name dragged through every tabloid at least once a month for something stupid I do, or they’ll just make shit up like they usually do, anyway. I can’t promise that I won’t beat the shit out of Michael—out of anyone who has the nerve to say shit about you in front of me.”

Her brow furrowed.

“When I can’t find the words to talk about how I feel, I read them. I’m not saying that I won’t work on communication, but I am saying that you have to accept the fact that I’m not the poetry and hearts guy. I travel too much. I swear too much. I’m covered in scars from shit I would rather die than have you experience, and most of those scars aren’t physical. I’m not big on tradition—I’d rather find a newer, better way to do something. My job isn’t stable—I can be traded to any team when the terms are right. I really hate jello, and it’s even worse when people stick fruit in it.”

She cracked a smile.

“Persephone, I love you. I’m in love with you, and I have been since the moment you had the nerve to throw sass at me in that hallway two years ago. I just didn’t recognize the emotion until I was staring down the barrel of losing you. And if this is really what you want, then I’m changing our rules. Four is out—because I love you and you love me. Five is out because I plan on making love to you for the rest of our lives. I can’t guarantee seven, because I tend to get into fights on the ice in at least eighty percent of the games I play in.”

I shifted forward on my knees, and my shirt fell open.

Her eyes shined, and her lip trembled as she reached for the white, crisp fabric and held it apart just far enough to see my new ink, still swollen and lightly scabbed in places.

In a sea of black on my chest, the once-empty heart now had her name scrawled across it in crimson red, against a backdrop of pomegranate seeds that filled the heart to the brim.

“I got it done instead of playing golf,” I admitted. “Even though your dad had just told us that we weren’t married, and I knew I was going to have to walk away for your own good—”

Her eyes flew to mine in a panic.

“—I realized that you own me, and that fact won’t change if you decide not to marry me today. You will always own me.” My brows knit. “And I guess that’s another con for the list—I’m never going to willingly play golf. Ever. It fucking sucks.”